


A Collection of Moments

by robbertree



Category: Glory (1989)
Genre: American Civil War, American History, Childhood Memories, Drabble Collection, Gen, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 09:39:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15116714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robbertree/pseuds/robbertree
Summary: Three small moments in Shaw's life.





	A Collection of Moments

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this isn't based on anything that happens in Glory, so there might be some faces you don't recognize. Content warning for the last piece.

The creek reminded him of home.

Clear waters glossed effortlessly over an assortment of rocks, eroded into soft round hunks of mineral. Light green leaves and twigs glided gently over the surface of the waves, only to disappear under the ebb and flow of the current. Trees draped themselves proudly over the soft banks of the creek, only allowing slivers of light to penetrate through their canopy. The sun's reflection glimmered unwaveringly through a break in the treeline.

Birds of an unnamed species called gently from their perches, long ebony beaks thin and sharp. Their long, jagged talons grappled with the sloping branches, unable to find purchase. Their feathers fanned out in an orange halo, the beating of their wings loud and abrupt.

The sky was empty and vast, thin wisps of clouds seldom snaked their way along the rich blue tapestry. It had yet to rain all week, the air was hot and dry. The shade of the forest was a welcome reprieve.

The man closed his blue eyes and rested against a nearby tree, taking in the sounds of wildlife. He buried his hands in the pockets of his uniform, content. The lines of stress begun to fade, his haggard appearance rough and worn. The colonel let the tension drain from his muscles. Things were going fine - if only for a moment.

The war weighed heavily upon his sloping shoulders, his young face weary and lined with distress. His soft, youthful features were strained, blue eyes wet and dull. Nostalgia was a painful twinge in his chest.

Robert clasped his hands and closed his eyes. Taking in the sounds of nature, the roar of life was quiet. The quiet was welcome in the midst of everything. Barking orders, directing troops, my God - he was responsible for over a thousand men. He was haggard.

He was dozing lightly as the sun rose higher in the sky. The call of the birds lulled him deeper, sinking into a faint state of slumber. Robert's head rested heavily on a mossy stone, his breaths shallow and soft. He was content.

He felt at home.

* * *

 

The room didn't feel real.

Everything felt like a mirage. It took him a moment for everything to register, he remained reluctant to enter. He felt if he were to reach out, the silken sheets would dissolve into the harsh texture of India-rubber. Natural light seeped lazily thought the window's thick glass, casting the wooden floor with a pale yellow. A large oriental rug adorned with ornate greens and blacks lay deflated beneath his aching feet. The sun dipped lower in the sky as Robert gazed longingly at the bed. A year at war left him reluctant to rest his tired frame.

Charles Lowell - his soon to be brother-in-law - shifted nervously from foot to foot in the doorway, long fingers resting lightly upon the oak surface. The side of his mouth twitched before he smiled.

"I'll treat her like royalty, you know. Your sister."

Shaw smiled lightly at his old friend.

"I know."

* * *

 

The morning was a dull gray, a thick layer of clouds blocking out the sun. It was a dark morning, a morning that was oddly silent and claustrophobic. The commune was sprawling and empty, rife with lush forests and open fields. The cold that day was monolithic, siphoning warmth and life from anything its gnarled hands could grope at. It was the kind of cold that could steal the breath from your lungs and leave you hollow. The cold had an immensely bitter tinge to it.

The snow had begun to fall in small, dry chips. The swaying grass had been frozen to the hard soil, powdery white snowflakes fell upon it. It was picturesque, the scene. The treeline faded into a sublime gray backdrop as the snow spiraled gently down. There was an unspoken vastness to it. The snow was always silent, in comparison to the fat droplets of rain that came with summer. Yes, the silence was immense.

You could never tell when the morning came, especially on a day such as this. Certainly there was a light that trickled through the clouds, but it was a lifeless, sickly light. It felt pale and artificial. It was beautiful, the day was, but it certainly did not feel welcoming. The world was stiff as waxy, and everyone would much rather stay indoors.

When a young Robert Gould Shaw opened his eyes, his heart felt strangely big. His lungs opened up, desperately aching for the clean air of the outdoors. His face twitched in a rather strange fashion, not enjoying the stillness of the morning very much at all. He kicked out his pale little legs and ran to his wardrobe, Robert's thin little feet slapping against wood. He dressed himself in a rather disagreeable manner, his dislike for the stiff fabric obvious. He debated pulling on his stockings as he tugged on the drapery. They itched at his legs far too much for his own liking.

His large eyes gazed in wonder at the open field, round red face open and searching. He had yet to endure winter on the commune, since he and his family had only been there for a short while.

It was as if an angel had caressed the open greenery with her tender hands, a gentle exhale coating the land with a dewy frost. The snow was coming down rather thickly now, intent on savoring the clean air of the morning. His heart felt bigger than ever.

Robert's steps were light as he skipped down the hall, incredibly pleased with himself. The boy of nine years felt as if the morning was his own secret, his very own treasure to keep. His heart soared as he hopped about the large passage, he felt as if with a high enough jump he could fly away. He briefly considered waking his sisters, but quickly dismissed the notion. The morning was HIS.

He slid quickly into his coat and fitted hat, preparing himself for the harsh cold. Even inside he could feel the icy tendrils of winter reaching out for him. His footsteps were silent as he made his way past a nearby room, where his sisters and their governess were sleeping soundly. Robert felt a giddiness overwhelm him, giggling softly and stomach seizing in excitement. He made sure to glide past each room soundlessly, knowing that any dull thud or murmur could mean the end of his little escapade.

He itched at his stockings and picked his way down the hall. He avoided any open doorways and slunk along at a snail's pace. The portraits that adorned that walls looked gaunt and wrenlike in the oddly pale light, reserving their solemn judgements for another time.

He felt stiff and sluggish in his winter attire, the boy mused. His blonde hair stuck out in little tufts beneath his cap, the young child fiddled with his gloves. Now where was the door?

A firm, thin hand latched onto Robert's arm in a vice-like grip. It was pale and veiny, spiderwebs of blue snaked their way up the long limb. Two narrow, dark eyes glared down at him from above. His heart dropped and his mouth went numb. Sarah Blake Shaw's eyes were blazing as she dragged the squirming child back towards his room, mouth pressed into a thin line. Robert swallowed dryly and screwed his eyes shut.

Susan awoke to quite a commotion outside of her door. Her plump, childish face was swathed in a messy tangle of auburn hair. She felt an unusual quality in the air, which she credited to the odd hour in which she was awakened. The young girl glanced at one of her sisters, whose mouth was parted and eyes were closed - long lashes like ebony feathers. She scoffed at the sleeping girl. Sue's feet collided coldly with the ground as she ran toward the doorway. She was rather taken aback at the sight before her.

Her mother was dragging Robert along, grip so startlingly tight she feared she might bruise him. Her weathered face was quite foul, her features so contrary that the young girl bit back a shudder herself. Her brother stumbled to keep his footing, blue eyes wet with unshed tears. Their eyes locked for just a moment before he was dragged away unceremoniously. The young boy must have been trying to sneak outside once again, the notion rather unsurprising. Robert had a bad habit of wandering off when left to his own devices. Sue debated whether or not to pursue them to hear her older brother be scolded. She decided against it and tucked herself back into bed. It was far too cold for that anyways.

She heard a door slam quite sharply down the hall. Far too cold.

Robert was already crying by the time the door slammed shut. The boy pulled himself back onto his bed, steeling himself for what was coming. His mother wheeled around to face him, a deep frown etched onto her face and brows knitted together rather angrily. She was quite ready to give the boy a scolding he would never forget.

Sarah boxed her son's ears and shouted in a frightening manner, unafraid to wake the entire commune. Though the woman had moved the entire family months ago to help treat her nearing blindness, her eyes were as keen as a hawk's. She had a rather ugly look to her as she shouted at her son, who was clutching his ears and squirming under her tirade. His red cheeks were stained with tears and his eyes were already swollen.

"I cannot _believe_ this, you foolish boy! How many times have I told you not to wander off alone - and in this weather? What if you had gotten yourself lost? You could have _died_. You remember this summer, don't you? You went running after those dogs of yours and nearly _drowned_! You're lucky you didn't break your ankle or something of the sort - you _never learn_!"

She smacked the side of the boy's head one last time and stomped towards the door. She fixed her son with an icy gaze.

"Don't you _dare_ leave this room unless I tell you so."

The door slammed shut behind her. Robert buried his face beneath his pillow and cried.

He hated mornings like these.

**Author's Note:**

> I've spoken with some people about Sarah Blake Shaw in the past, and I feel she's often glorified for her activism - none seem to touch on the much darker aspects of her personality. Certainly she did a great many things and should be credited for those, but I feel we should also mention that she was quite cruel and manipulative towards Robert in particular. Many historians mention that Robert Shaw was strangely codependent regarding his relationship with his mother, but they don't really mention why. Anyways, that's all I wanted to mention.


End file.
